❃ The Rich Man and His Fire Dancer ❃
"Dance for me like the bad girl you are, Nyra." Angelo circled me, stopping in front of me and looking up and down the belly dancing outfit I had on. No man has ever been this up close to me. They were forbidden...
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N Y R A ' S P O V
PRESENT
Walking in the same shitty apartment with the same shitty view as always, a view where you can see trash cans rolling on their sides being kicked relentlessly by a drunken man while emptying his puke all over the ground.
I don't live here anymore. Not after getting a job at the club, I have been classified as a Grade A dancer. Yes, we are graded. I feel like a pig being stamped by its owner, showing who's more suitable for the richest and hungriest men out there.
Since my talent captivated them, they decided to treat me like a muted queen in the club. They ruled over me but I had some conditions if they wanted me to boost their business's profits. Sometimes you have to play their game too.
I do the usual 'stay quiet, look pretty and do as you're told' but I wanted my fair share of this deal. I wanted men to look at me like I am the Sun. Seen and not touched. Else they'll get burnt.
I hated the looks they gave me, I knew they were undressing me with their bald eyes. The majority who paid for the hour were rich old men, trying to get their shrivelled shrimps excited but after last night I, for once, felt bare to a man with a different look in his eyes.
A mix of dominance and lust in those aquamarine eyes. The way he looked at me made the fire travelling around my body feel like ice. His icy eyes made me sweat. Who would have thought of such a paradox?
His aura alone was so powerful, I couldn't help but turn my body around to take a second to replenish my breathing rate. In each section that his eyes had raked over, my body felt stripped like paint. So easy, it was for him to undo each piece of clothing without using his hands.
I couldn't imagine how his hands must feel, a mix of rough and soft, I bet.
Grabbing the last of my stuff, I looked over at the broken table that I managed to kind of fix. A photo frame of me and my mother. I missed her and I wished she was around. No, she didn't die because of a 'typical' car crash. She was murdered.
Not by some random fucked up person but my dad. I hate calling him that. He tied her up, tortured her then burnt her alive, showing me the footage when I had turned eighteen, finding pleasure in me crying and crumbling.
He blamed her for her own death, saying she cheated on him with his right man who he, too, killed brutally.
That day, I ran away, changing my name to the one she wanted me to be called, she told me in her journal that I keep with me. I spent too many months mourning but now, I was hellbent to feel the purest emotion. Revenge.
